


Après Moi, Le Déluge

by transkeithkogane



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Blood and Gore, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prostitution, Slow Burn, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-27 03:21:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14416587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transkeithkogane/pseuds/transkeithkogane
Summary: Gotham City, 1896. Detectives race against time to stop a prolific serial killer who targets young boys but, as their lives become more and more intertwined with victims and killers alike, they'll learned that perhaps monsters aren't born, they're created.The Alienist AU.





	Après Moi, Le Déluge

**Author's Note:**

> I binge watched the entirety of The Alienist in a weekend because I was so obsessed and I couldn't help noticing some similarities between the characters in that and the Batfam so naturally I had to write this AU. 
> 
> Please make sure to heed the warnings and tags on this fic since all of these triggers do appear in the first chapter. 
> 
> The title is taken from a Regina Spektor song, but the quote is specifically attributed to King Louis XV.

The Bowery writhes with unease, swindlers circling through the street markets like sharks, watching for their next prey. A mother who’s not slept in a week, kept awake by a demanding husband and screaming children. A laborer, hands worked raw in the factories, unable to keep a roof over his family’s head. The local drunk who’s half-conscious and stumbling when it’s barely past three in the afternoon. The street orphans huddled against heating grates for warmth. The mobsters are the only ones left without a target on their backs. The men in three piece suits that stand lining the streets like hawks, the ones who have their hands in the pockets of nearly every business owner, those who deal in the back alleys, in seedy gambling establishments and skin trades. 

In the East End, everyone is on the prowl. Some seek innocent targets, like food and shelter, a full belly and a warm bed. Others hunt for pleasure, for pain, for something more than the existence they’re eking out on street corners. None of the children over the age of ten cry here anymore. They’re accustomed to frost-bitten fingers and harsh beatings from anyone who’s quick enough to catch them. 

They never stop for very long, not the ones who know better anyway, weaving in and out of legs and long skirts with the quickness of mice. But this afternoon, one falters. He pauses at a flash of color in the sea of monochrome, lets his footsteps slow in the gray slush of wet snow that’s covering the streets. His friends run on ahead, feet kicking up clods of filth onto those who walk too close, eager to spend the coins they earned the night before on a soda at the dive on the corner. 

An antelope separated from the herd. 

“What’s that?” The boy’s voice is still light, lacking the weight of adulthood as he takes a few steps closer, stretches one hand up towards the card in the man’s hand. It’s painted a wonderful array of colors, some that the boy’s never seen in these drab city streets. Brilliant magentas and deep blues, flashy golds and tawny browns. 

The man’s chuckle rumbles like thunder and the whole world seems to tilt as he leans down, like he’s fracturing the very nature of gravity, weighted but with a strange lightness, as he brings the drawing closer to the boy’s face. “Do you like it?”

The boy’s eyes tear away from the card when the man speaks, widen when they find the stranger’s face. The man’s jacket collar is pulled high, but from his downward angle the boy can see what the adults around him can’t.

On rare occasions, a darker predator descends on these streets. One whose only conviction lies in depravity.

“What’s wrong with your mouth?”

——————

Deep within the winding maze of Gotham streets filled with rotting corpses of animals and men alike, decorated with burnt out skeletons of buildings and drooping laundry lines, lies the Oasis. The building is stout, lined by more of the same, inconspicuous from the outside with curtains drawn on all the windows, ghostly impressions of those inside flicker in the candlelight and give only suggestions of the inner workings. A pair of women’s boots hang from a spike haphazardly driven into the wood above the front door, an entranceway that takes patrons down into the basement, for those entering must pass by the musty bar, seek shelter in the cigarette smoke-filled hallways before attending to matters on the upper floors.

It’s early still, rays of sun highlighted against a smoggy skyline as the sun slowly dips. It’s already cold enough for snow to be sticking to the ground, white blankets laid across the tops of buildings, still pure in comparison to the dirty slush lining the streets. The temperature will drop further the moment the sun retires fully. There’s a rush to light street lamps below, flames glowing faintly as though they have a chance of driving the darkness from this forgotten corner of city. 

Inside the hideaway, a lone bartender wipes the rough bar top, cracked and surely growing mold on the underside. His rag is filthy, only succeeding in spreading the grime around further, streaks of old beer and liquor that have sunk straight into the porous wood. Once the men who frequent the establishment are done with family dinners, upstanding social engagements like the opera, they will all descend upon the Oasis, scavengers plucking at the flesh presented to them, pawing at clothes, tugging at hair. 

For now, the place is quiet. Well, quieter than it will be when the moon is high in the sky. The laughter of young boys echoes down the dank hallways like a song, footsteps patter as they chase one another across rooms, shuffle card decks with calloused hands. Some are just waking, rubbing the sleep from their eyes as they wrap shawls around themselves, enlist the help of others to lace corsets to compress their ribs, create a womanly shape. Others peek out behind curtains, watch the bustle in the streets below, neighbors returning from a long days work, mothers calling children in from the streets, if they are lucky enough to have mothers to call to them. 

One window is propped open. A young man occupies the space, nearly too large for the ledge, legs hanging into open air, dangling stories above the street. Hair so black it shines blue in candlelight falls around his face, bangs flopping into his eyes and catching on full eyelashes. Dark bags hang under his eyes and his already high cheekbones are sunken with hunger, but his silhouette is striking in the low light. A sloping nose and sharp jaw with lips that look best curled into a teasing smirk. A cigarette hangs there now and he exhales smoke between his teeth. 

He’s working off a hangover, and a headache from a split in his right eyebrow, courtesy of a brawl the night before. He rubs at the five o’ clock shadow darkening his jaw, pushes his too long hair back from his face. His eyes fix on the building across the street. It’s a few stories shorter than the one he’s in so the roof is at his height, rows of laundry billowing in the wind. There’s a woman who’s come to take some of it down, but that’s not who he’s looking for. 

“Jacinda!” There’s a scuffle behind the man but his eyes stay forward. The door on the rooftop. He just needs a sign, a flicker of movement, the twist of the knob. 

There’s knocking from inside, the stamping of feet up and down the hallway. “Jacinda!” 

Another drag of the cigarette, bitter ash on his tongue. He grinds out the light on the window sill, watches the flame mark the wood black and angry.

He’s not coming. 

“Jacinda!” The door bursts open and a teenage boy tumbles into the room, finally draws his attention away from the rooftop. He ducks down, bends his body like a bow so he can slip back in through the open window. His feet are nearly silent as he steps back onto solid ground, lets the window drop closed behind him with a defeated thud. Gray eyes roll up towards the ceiling before he fixes the younger with a sharp glare, gaze unwavering as the boy climbs to his feet. 

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” 

The boy shuffles from foot to foot, kitten heels clicking against the wooden floorboards. “Sorry, Jason.” He’s no doubt picked up the other name from the boys he rooms with, but they know better than to call Jason that to his face. He hasn’t worked with a female persona in years now. Still, the boy sounds so dejected that Jason’s firm expression relents, just a bit. He’s not trying to be cruel. There’s too much animosity directed towards them in this world already. Besides, the other’s come in here for a reason. Jason can tell as much from his appearance. His dress is only half done up and he’s holding his wig in one hand, a pot of red paste in the other. 

“Come here, Louis.” They always pick on the newcomers. The boys Talia drags in off the street are lucky. Most of them know someone who’s already under her employ so they fit right in with their scarred knuckles and sharp mouths. Louis’s not from this neighborhood though and he’s been sold into the trade, to pay off his father’s gambling debt, which means he’s unfamiliar with most of the working boys. The bonds of shared experience will form between them soon enough, but until then, Jason’s been looking out for him. It’s the least he can do to ease the suffering. 

Louis shuffles closer and Jason sits him down on the mattress in the corner, propped up on a few pieces of cinderblocks to create a makeshift bed frame. He plucks the brush from Louis’s hands and dips it into the rouge, tilts the boy’s chin up so he can gently trace over his lips with a practiced hand, staining the skin a flushed red. 

“Were you waiting again?” 

Jason huffs a frustrated breath at the other’s question and flicks at Louis’s cheek, making the younger snicker and duck away. Louis might be young, but he’s more attentive than most. It’s an important quality for someone in their line of work to have, but Jason rather wished Louis wouldn’t apply that scrutiny to his own affairs. 

“If you don’t want people to ask, you shouldn’t scream his name so loudly-“ Louis darts out of Jason’s reach when he tries to cuff him lightly round the ears to shut him up. It’s not really Louis’s fault for overhearing. The walls of the rundown building might as well not be there with how thin they were. Any desire for privacy has to be abandoned in such places, even if one wishes desperately for intimate moments to be, well, intimate.

Jason can feel his cheeks beginning to heat up as Louis bounces up and down on his bed with a devilish smile spreading across his face. “Get down, you brat,” he grumbles, catches Louis around the waist and drags him back to sit on the edge of the bed. 

“I can’t do this if you’re talking,” he complains, holding up the brush for emphasis. The lip stain will be a mess by the end of the night but Jason would very much like to have it look somewhat presentable at the start. If he can make Louis feel even a little more human, he wants to try. 

Some of the boys hate what they see in the mirror when they’re all made up. Others prefer the cosmetics, grow their hair out long, and strain their voices against natural puberty. Jason’s not sure where Louis falls but, whatever his feelings, the least he can do is help to maintain whatever dignity they’ve still got within this profession.

Thankfully, Louis seems to notice the hint of melancholy in Jason’s eyes and he sits still save for a few fidgets as Jason finishes his lips, dresses him properly before straightening up. “Alright. Now get the hell out of here before you’re late and get a beating,” he urges, the corners of his lips curving up in a half-smile.

Louis’s quiet for a moment, eyes at his feet. Jason’s no stranger to that anxiety, to the tension he can see in the younger boy’s shoulders. He’s not good at this part, at the comfort, because he knows too well there’s nothing he can say that hasn’t been said before. And, before he can offer some half-assed platitude, Louis’s slipping off the bed, trotting to the door. “I’ll see you down there.” Then he’s gone and Jason wipes some of the red he’s gotten on his fingers on his bedsheets.

When he turns, he can see the moon peeking her head over the buildings on the horizon and he reaches out to pull the curtains closed. 

——————

Water laps against the bridge supports. Waves that roar up close can hardly be heard at their height. He stands poised on the strut, towering above the skyline, above the boy that lays before him. 

The moon has disappeared behind thick, billowing clouds, or perhaps it’s smoke from chimneys, a desperate attempt to keep the city warm. 

When he drags his fingers over the boy’s cheek, his skin is frigid, snowflakes collecting in his hair. His lips drip a red that compliment his wide green eyes. 

——————

Auction paddles flick up all together, like soldiers standing at attention when their captain approaches. The auctioneers voice is a staccato rise and fall of words too quick to make out until a few seconds after they’ve been uttered and the string quartet playing a brisk waltz to serve as background noise does nothing to keep its audience’s focus. Dick’s hardly paying attention to his surroundings anyway. He’s only meant to make an appearance, to shake a few hands, to remind the rest of high society that he’s still a thorn in their side that they can’t seem to shake. If Bruce was particularly fond of anything at the auction, he would have made sure to point that out prior to this point in time. Besides, Dick’s not sure there’s anything of interest here. 

The people are even less intriguing than the art on display. Heiresses to the vast wealth of old money lounge in their seats, slender legs crossed primly as they stare glassy-eyed at the items brought to the stage. The men aren’t much better, vacant stares at the auction pieces or, worse, hungry ones at the women beside them, in front of them, all around. Underneath all the jewelry and riches, they’re as uncivilized as the beggars like they to turn their nose up to. Dick will never be used to the monotony of it all. High society has never held much of an appeal, save for the privileges money can afford. He could do without the politics, without the judgments cast so readily by those in no position to judge anyone but their own twisted households. 

The rumors of torrid love affairs and salacious business dealings keep the housewives intrigued, but despite Dick’s starring appearance in more than one story, they’ve never held his attention, no matter how many dirty looks or scandalized glances were sent his way. 

He feels out of place in his evening suit, the jacket too fitted, the bow tie suffocating. He almost looks the part, can play act affluence, feign high society as though he was born into it. The role is more familiar now than it was a few years back, but it’s not genuine. For all his dressing up, he hears the whispers, knows that the rich seek out differences like bloodhounds, weaponize secrets to hold power over others. 

His tanned skin is enough of a giveaway for most, the olive complexion was enough to set him apart from the rest of the men in power. His eyes were perhaps a light enough blue to afford him, at the very least, some confused speculation, but his family’s choice of business, an empire built on big tops and rings of fire, has left little doubt in the hive mind of high society. But his money is as green as anyone else’s and that places a salve, excuses their perception of his moral fiber on the basis of his skin tone. 

The auction gavel bangs obnoxiously as the auctioneer shouts his glee at another large purchase, grates against Dick’s already frayed nerves. He downs the champagne flute in his hand in one go, sets the glass on a waiter’s tray when one happens by and grabs another full drink for good measure. 

“Bored already, Mr. Grayson?”

The familiar voice certainly doesn’t ease the tension in his frame and he tries his best to keep his head from snapping right around. He’s sure he fails, just as he fails to hide the surprise on his face, the knit of brows and the frown on his lips. 

“I’d rather hoped you’d be happy to see me.” The socialite stretches forward to lean over the back of the seat beside Dick, lets her fingers slip subtly along the underside of his wrist. He can feel the tremor in his hand, see it in the way the champagne sloshes against the sides of the glass. 

He knocks that one back as well. It’s not that he’s unhappy to see her. It’s just that he’s sure she’s happy to see him. It’s the way her eyes shimmer in the chandelier lights, how she’s inching closer to him so that all he can smell is the floral scent of perfume clinging to her pale skin. Her left hand is devoid of a wedding band and he’s given her the wrong idea. Then again, sleeping with her has certainly only complicated the situation.

She’s leaning closer now, fingers slipping down to skin over the top of his knuckles. “Give me a ride home, won’t you?” Her words are breathy, whispered. One might think it’s out of respect for their surroundings, but Dick is quite sure her every move is calculated. She’s mimicking the way she speaks when he’d sliding between her legs. Dick almost wishes he didn’t know as much, didn’t remember the way she writhed and arched her back underneath him. 

“There’s still quite a few more pieces to see.” It’s a flimsy excuse, one that will likely not hold for more than a few minutes, but he’d rather not reveal any more of his reasoning for appearing tonight. While Dick was more than happy to skip this particular event, he was made a request by someone he couldn’t refuse, someone he would begrudgingly sit through a charity art auction for with the most snobby residents of New York as his company. 

The waiter’s back again and he trades the empty drink for a new one, hands her one as well in the hopes the distraction will be enough. Her hand quickly returns to his though, fingers stroking a circle into his skin. Another glass, another painting, another touch on his hand. It goes like this until he can no longer stand the heat racing beneath his collar. “Alright.” He clears his throat as he stands, offers his arm to her. “Shall we then?”

——————

A sentry makes his rounds slowly on a frozen path, wraps his fingers to grip the strap of his nightstick tighter. It’s a shit shift, in a shit part of town, reserved for the newest cops to cut their milk teeth on the most violent crimes Gotham has to offer. Abandoned babies, brutal beatings, gang shootouts, rapes. The unsettled West doesn’t hold a torch to Gotham’s Crime Alley. 

There’s blood in the snow, a steady drip drip drip onto the undisturbed flakes. While the snow on the street is all churned up with footfalls of the city’s inhabitants, the expanse under the bridge is smooth. No one comes this way save for street urchins seeking shelter from the freezing temperature beneath the wooden struts. 

The policeman’s footsteps slow, come to a halt a few feet away. It’s a steady trickle. One drop and another and another. It falls without a sound, too small to make one, but staining deep into the ground. 

He steps closer. 

The severed hand falls with a weight behind it, splashes deep red against the ground, splatters the police man’s shoes, his jacket. 

His eyes raise skyward, to the bridge, to the broken body framed against the night. The moon smiles knowingly. 

——————

“There’s a boy on the bridge.”

The commissioner’s door hits the wall with enough force to shake it on its hinges as the redhead bursts through in a whirl of skirts and breathlessness. Jim’s head snaps up from the papers he’s pouring over, old case notes, as well as headlines scattered across his desk, professing the height of crime at the end of the 19th century.

He’s been here since before the sun was even close to rising, putting out fires across the city most of the morning, before being forced into a suit and tie for charity events in the afternoon. His jacket’s lying across the back of his chair now, hair disheveled from how he’s been pushing his fingers through it. The candle beside him is dying, burning low in its holder and casting long shadows and he drops the file he’s holding to his desk, scatters a few papers that flutter from the tabletop. 

“Barbara—”

“They need you at once.” She’s already slipping her own jacket over her arms, tugging it up around her shoulders, ignoring the way it bunches and catches on her dress’ sleeves. “I should like to accompany you.” There’s a fire in her eyes, a determination Jim has yet to see in some of the eyes of the men he employs. If she had been born into their privileged gender, perhaps she might be more than a secretary. She could have occupied the space occupied for those bravest men, the ones unafraid of the demons lurking in the shadows. 

But this is Gotham and it’s not just the demons that would eat her alive in their line of work. Those men with their minds stuck in the past would make her time on the force unbearable, more so than they already did. Jim’s chair scrapes along the floor as he stands, snatches up his coat and then his hat off the rack. “It’s not good practice, Barbara.” His voice builds a wall between them, betrays none of his personal bias, as he slips his pistol into his jacket pocket. Her eyes catch on the silver before they dart away again, wander over the pictures laid out across his desk. The deep gunshot framed by two wide, dead eyes, the broken noses, crushed knees. He drags a newspaper to cover the pictures. 

“ _New Commissioner Failing the City?_ ” the headline reads in permanent black letters.

“Tell me you didn’t offer me this job out of pity, Commissioner.” When he looks to Barbara, she’s stepped closer to him with a challenge in the set of her jaw. Her green eyes are sharp, hold him transfixed, time suspended for a moment, before he steps around her, places his hat on his head. The tension hangs in the room between them, in his silent answer, in his hurried walk to the door. 

“Commissioner.” His hand is on the knob when he turns back to her, can hear the resignation in her voice. He doesn’t enjoy rebuffing her, keeping her from the work he knows she’s perfectly capable to do, but the microscope that’s held on both of them shows no sign of relenting anytime soon. Even so, when their eyes meet, she offers a soft smile and raises one hand to tap the bridge of her nose lightly. “Your glasses.” 

“Oh.” He pulls the reading glasses from his face, folds the earpieces in with maybe more force than was needed in his haste. He moves to place them on the desk but Barbara holds out a hand, takes the wire frames with a nod. “Thank you.” 

She watches from the doorway as he leaves before turning back to his desk, pushing aside the newspaper so she can sift through the photos once more. 

——————

The Oasis is alive. 

Boys clamber onto tabletops, drop their coats to reveal decadent dresses of lace and silk that patrons grabbed for, twist rough fingers in the soft fabrics. Glasses of whiskey pass around the main show room, accompanied on the rare occasion by a bottle of champagne, for clients wealthy enough to afford to shower their partner of the night with a taste of luxury. 

It’s early enough that the majority of visitors haven’t yet settled on a partner, save for the few regulars who are careful to come early, lay claim over their favorites before anyone else can get their paws on them. 

The younger boys are always the most popular, the ones who pass almost seamlessly as young girls. The older men’s proclivity towards them is some indication of the darkness in their society, Jason’s sure of that, but he’s here to work, not pass any sort of psychological judgment. He’s never been a fan of psychological theory. He intervenes only when the patrons are too rough, when they need to throw somebody out on their ass.

He runs his finger up the side of the glass in his hand, collects the condensation from the chilled sparkling wine. His companion has an arm around his waist, fingers hooked just under the hem of his trousers. The man’s much too drunk already and Jason’s certain that, once he leads the stranger upstairs, lays him out on one of the beds, that all he’ll be doing is picking the fat business man’s pocket. 

But right now he’s preoccupied, not so much by someone else’s presence, but rather by the lack of one. There’s not so many boys working out of the Oasis that a missing worker would go unnoticed and the price is high for anyone who dares skip work for any reason other than a sickness that rendered one too weak to stand. One of the workers wanders past, a waif of a boy called Marcus by day, known to clients as… 

“Mary.” Jason’s hand finds the boy’s wrist to stop him from disappearing into the crowd around them. With the music playing and a myriad of rowdy conversations echoing through the drafty basement, he’s sure that no prying ears will be privy to their words. “Where’s Pearl?” 

He’s normally a crowd favorite, one of the boys who would scramble up on the makeshift stage and sing show tunes in a startlingly lovely soprano. Jason can’t profess to know each and every boy’s personal life—there’s too many that flicker in and out like candles— but he hears the whispered secrets that flow between them like water. It’s a well known fact that Pearl had a wealthy suitor, one who had made grand promises of an escape from the life. No one had really believed it. Clients nearly always made up pretty words to cover their ugly actions, to lay a salve on wounds they couldn’t hope to repair. 

But now Jason’s wondering if there was truth to the stranger’s words. What other reason would Pearl have for being absent from work? Unfortunately, Mary seems to be equally in the dark, shaking his head and making the brown curls of his wig bounce. “Dunno. He went out to market earlier and didn’t come back with the others.” 

“If she asks, tell her Pearl’s sick, sleeping in my room,” Jason is careful with the words, crafting a lie that their mistress will not be likely to check up on. With a nod, Mary slips away from Jason’s, prances daintily to the bar where he sidles up beside an older gentleman, hand resting on his shoulder in what Jason’s sure he’s intending to be seduction. He doesn’t watch for much longer, turns his attention to the man at his own side whose hands are beginning to wander in a way that makes Jason grunt in discomfort. 

He hides his grimace behind the rim of his glass, turning his gaze to the businessman. A practiced smile slides over his face. “Handsy, aren’t we?” Jason shifts in his arms, tangles their fingers together. It’s a rehearsed dance, a two step that’s always colored with indifferent seduction, regardless of who his partner is. 

Well, save for one. 

——————

The clock on the wall ticks impatiently, drenches the silent room with the incessant march of time. The doctor sits beside his patient, a small boy of no more than six who has his arms crossed firmly across his chest in a show of stubborn resistance. His mother is perched on the edge of an armchair pressed back into one corner of the room. Her hands shake as she bunches and un-bunches a monogrammed handkerchief, occasionally sniffling in a way that betrays her melancholy. 

Despite the tension leaking through the room, the doctor’s gaze is soft, hazel eyes unwavering in their attentiveness. It’s clear his visitors have caught him off guard. He’s wrapped in a rich burgundy dressing robe, intricate patterns immaculately stitched into the design, while his dark hair is disheveled, pushed back from his face with haste rather than the clean hairstyle he normally sports. The salt and pepper coloring of his beard betrays his age, as well as a pair of reading glasses on the table in front of him. 

“Thomas.” The doctor’s voice is low but firm, fishing for the child’s attention. He tips his head towards the boy in silent question, tries his best to bow his broad shoulders, decrease his formidable frame. It doesn’t seem to be working as the child only shrinks further from him, keep his eyes focused on the darkened space beneath the table. 

“Perhaps we should try again tomorrow, Alice.”

The mother starts at her name, sits up straighter and simpers a rather insincere smile. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, Bruce—” 

There’s tension in the doctor’s shoulders at the use of his first name. Unfortunately for the doctor, this boy’s mother is not the first to drop by unannounced to Wayne Manor late at night. Bruce is fairly certain the visit has very little to do with her child’s wellbeing and much more to do with gaining entry to his residence past business hours.

He really must beg the writers of the Gazette to stop including him on the social page, or rather, he needs them to stop highlighting his lack of social life, particularly his lack of romantic interests. He’s not nearly as desperate as these women seem to be assuming. He rises to his feet and his company follows suit in a rustle of chiffon, ushers her son forward. “What do you say to Dr. Wayne, Thomas?” 

The boy raises one hand to his mouth before tipping his fingers towards Bruce, who mimics the action. “That’s quite good, Thomas,” he acknowledges, but his smile falters when he sees the set of the woman’s jaw, the tightness in her brow. “It would help if you practiced speaking his language.” His suggestion is greeted with a haughty sniff and another disingenuous simper. She won’t try, would like her son to speak properly, not though mimes “like a tamed chimp,” was how she put it during their last visit.

“I’ll see you tomorrow Thomas. Alfred will show you out from the foyer.” 

The door closes behind them and Bruce lets out a soft sigh, slumps back down in his chair and scratches a few notes in fluid strokes into the boy’s file. It’s not been a minute before the door slams open suddenly and Bruce is on his feet in an instant, never one to be caught off guard, especially not in his own home.

“Alfred!”

But it’s not the butler at the door. Tim Drake charges into the room with the force of a rampaging bull. Well, a miniature rampaging bull. The boy’s only just turned fifteen and he’s short for his age, not yet coming up to bruce’s shoulder. But it’s well past a decent hour for a boy of his standing to be running amok in Bruce’s residence, rather than his own.

It’s the boy’s expression that stops Bruce though, brings him up short before he can inquire as to what the boy thinks he’s doing. His eyes are wide and he seems shaky on his feet as he nearly runs straight into the desk separating the distance between the two of them in his haste, hands catching him just before he crashes into the wooden surface.

“You have to come to the bridge now.” He’s breathless, all the words crashing into each other as he hitches an uneven gasp for air. Bruce wonders if he’s run the whole way here in the cold. The tip of his nose is tinged pink, as well as the tips of his ears sticking out from under the cap that’s pushing black hair into his face, sticking to the sweat on his forehead. 

Bruce takes in the boy’s clothing then. Scuffed loafers, trousers with patches sewn over tears in the knees, and a coarse shirt that’s itching at Tim’s neck, his delicate skin inflamed where the collar is rubbing at him. “I thought we agreed you would stop running about down in the Bowery.” It seems like a conversation they’ve had dozens of times and, every time, Tim would run right back to those dirty streets like they were the best Gotham had to offer. 

“Bruce, you can lecture me later.” Tim’s voice is exasperated, holds a gravity well beyond his years, and Bruce knows why when the followup statement leaves his lips. 

“He’s the same as Joseph.” 

——————

The street behind the auction house is dim, the flames in the lamps snuffed out by a wind that’s whipping through the narrow streets. The carriages of Gotham’s most affluent sit lining the roads like large wooden birds, hunched and skeletal in the low light. The snow slushes around Dick’s feet but the sound can hardly be heard over the snoring of one of the drivers, bundled tight in blankets against the insidious cold. No one looks up when he unlatches his carriage door, pulls it shut again once his companion has gathered and lifted her skirts safely inside. 

There’s a breath, a heartbeat, a moment where all they do is stare into each other’s eyes. Despite the time they’ve spent together, they’ve never had so much as a conversation. Frankly, Dick’s not sure they’d have anything to talk about if they did. All they have between them are the assumptions placed on them by outsiders, all the rumors whispered behind their backs. 

Her nimble fingers find the waistband of his pants, begin to tug them open but he catches her wrist. It’s always a frenzy of need between them, hot and fierce, but it burns so quickly and Dick wants this moment to take a breath. 

“Ann—” 

Before he can even get her name out, she’s pressing their lips together in a heated sigh of passion and he can feel her grip the front of his jacket, tug at the lapels to keep him close as though he might slip away the first chance he gets. He reaches up to cup her cheek but his fingers catch in her pearl necklace and the delicate clasp snaps, sends the jewelry clattering to the carriage floor. 

Nether of them bother to pick it up and her skirts rustles as she leans into the press of their bodies. Dick parts his lips to taste her, a hint of champagne still on her tongue that sends a thrill of excitement through his body. There’s not enough room for either of them to move properly but he gets his hands up under her skirts, shifts the fabric out of the way so he can slide his fingers over the soft skin of her thigh in a way that makes her gasp.

He swears he can hear the beat of her heart speed up, jump with excitement as she crawls into his lap. He cants his hips forward, shifts to get the last few pieces of clothing from between their bodies. His free hand finds her hair, deepens the kiss further as she lets out a breathy moan against his lips. 

The carriage door is thrown wide and they spring apart like their lives depend on it, wide eyes meeting the face of their interrupter. 

“Jesus Christ, Tim.” Dick’s quick to pull his jacket around himself, fingers fumbling at his belt in his haste to make himself decent. The way the kid chokes back a laugh doesn’t do anything to ease his frustration and he can feel an embarrassed flush heating up his cheeks. His companion doesn’t look anymore pleased, hastily reaching down to scoop up her pearls before smoothing her hands over her skirts. 

“Bruce needs you.” The name makes Dick’s skin crawl, not because he’s particularly opposed to helping Bruce, but rather he’s the last person Dick wants to think about while he’s in this position. 

“He couldn’t have waited?” It’s a pointless question to ask. Of course, he couldn’t. When Bruce needed something, the other man was the top priority. All other matters fell to the wayside, unimportant in comparison to Bruce’s whims. 

“I don’t think two or three minutes will make much of a difference,” Tim quips with a shrug of his shoulders, eyes sparkling with mirth in the low light streaming in through the carriage window. Someone’s relit the lamps outside. “You can finish if you want.” 

Dick’s looking for something to throw at the brat’s head but the carriage door swings shut before he can, muffling Tim’s laughter. 

“Bruce?” 

Dick’s eyes swivel back to Anna who looks more put together than a moment ago, save for a few stands of blonde hair that have come loose from her updo. She’s trying her best to clasp her necklace but seems to be struggling even as she stares at him with a knitted brow. “The alienist?” 

Dick leans forward, refastens the jewelry, watches as it lays tender across her collarbone. 

“Whatever does he want with you?” 

He presses a kiss to the gentle curve of her neck, tucks his shirt back into his trousers as he opens the carriage door, braces himself against the cold. “Nothing pleasant, I’d assume,” he mutters as he steps out onto the snow. 

——————

The wind whips across the bridge, digs into skin like needles of ice. The lamps officers have carried to this height periodically flicker out, despite the glass that’s meant to protect their meager flames, and they bend to relight them, hands cupped desperately around matchsticks. Jim scribbles notes into his notebook, fingers already aching from exposure to the cold as he records in great detail the state of the boy’s body. He’s not sure if he can put it into words without coloring the reading with his own disgust. The scene in front of him seems unexplainable without the bias of abject horror, the kind of thing one hoped to never see in their lifetime. 

When he first reached the bridge, he questioned whether this was even the work of a man. Mangled flesh, torn apart in a way that makes the corpse barely recognizable as a human being. Jagged edges, severed appendages, and blood splattered across nearly every surface in the general vicinity. He’s barely more than a child, Even he has to close his eyes after a few minutes of observing the grotesque horror. 

“Commissioner Gordon.” 

It’s a familiar voice, but not one Jim is eager to hear in this situation. His eyes blaze, jaw set, as he whirls around. “What is he doing here?” he accuses the officer standing beside Bruce. “I said no one was to come up. If Dent sees him here, he’ll have your badge and my job!” 

“Sorry, Jim.” Dick steps forward then and it’s obvious his presence isn’t sitting well either. “Thought you might want a fresh set of eyes.” Although right now Dick’s worried that Gordon might push both of them to their deaths, his fingers clenching and unclenching in fists. 

“Grayson…” Jim runs his hand over his face and Dick notices that he’s pale, not just from the frigid temperatures. Maybe the tension’s not solely from their presence. Whatever’s up here has him more on edge than usual and Dick’s sure Jim has been privy to most of the horrors Gotham has to offer, certainly more so than he’s seen as a private eye. 

“You might as well take a look, if you can stomach it.”

Bruce forages on farther along the bridge without much acknowledgment, but Dick nods, offers a hand to Jim in a show of good faith which the commissioner shakes after a moment of hesitation.

“This way.” Jim leads them along the precarious walkway, the wood groaning in protest under them, against their weight, against the wind. It’s hard to believe the structure is sound when they’re hundreds of feet above the silent city. 

They come to a wider section of the bridge, unfinished with a makeshift railing that’s been hastily constructed to help keep workers from toppling to their deaths. Handheld lamps are placed on the ground, illuminating the surroundings, casting eerie shadows like hands reaching out. The wood is darker here and it takes Dick a moment to realize it’s blood, more than he’s seen in a long time. It’s stained the wood a sickening black, dripping between slats, and, as he follows its path, his heart catches in his throat, stomach turning. 

“What—” 

Bruce pushes past him before he can get the question out. There, at the boy’s feet, is his heart, ripped from his chest as though it’s some trophy to be displayed, shriveled and surprisingly small in comparison to the policemen standing guard. Dick feels nausea take hold as he averts his gaze, sucks a breath in through his nose. 

"Paciano Abruzzo.” Jim’s voice is nearly emotionless as he speaks. A show of bravado, a push to remain unaffected by the tragedy before them, a desperate attempt to handle this like business as usual. “Better known as Pearl. A working boy, out of the Oasis in the Bowery.” 

One of the policemen makes a noise that sounds like a sneering scoff of, “boy whore,” but he shuts his lips tight when Jim sends a seething glare in his direction.

“He’s not dressed for it,” Dick manages, without looking back at the body. He can tell, even with all the blood, that Pearl’s dressed in what’s left of some trousers and a collared shirt, a far cry from what Dick knows to be standard attire for young boys who work in brothels. 

“He was taken before he started work,” Bruce posits and Dick is inclined to believe him. “From somewhere inconspicuous, a place where the killer wouldn’t arouse suspicion and wouldn’t be labeled a pervert.” 

The expression on Jim’s face is unreadable as he steps forward. “We assumed as much.” He seems irked that he and Bruce are on the same page, shoulders tight, mouth set in a firm line.

“Has anyone moved the body?” 

Jim shakes his head at Bruce’s question, steps back to allow the doctor to get closer, to peer down at the macabre scene. Dick pulls a handkerchief from his pocket to hold over his mouth as he stops just short of the bloodstains. The boy’s been vivisected and Dick can only pray it happened postmortem. 

“No one has seen this except for the few of us up here,” Jim replies and Dick swears he’s gone a bit green in the face. They’re used to violence, but this is beyond. This is butchery, as though the boy is nothing more than an animal meant for slaughter. This is for no reason other than to satisfy twisted appetites. “Nothing’s been moved. He was positioned like this when we got here.” 

Bruce bends down, sharp eyes moving over the corpse before him. “Cause of death?” 

“I’m not sure I should be discussing it with you.” Jim’s voice is hard, authoritative, causing both Dick and Bruce to tear their eyes away from the horror before them. “You shouldn’t be here, Bruce. I told you we have no need for a man who indulges his patients’ perverted afflictions. I appreciate the work you’ve done but—” 

“I would have thought you more accepting of emerging scientific fields, Commissioner.” The temperature seems to drop a few degrees with that comment and Dick knows, for Bruce, that’s nothing more than a throwaway, a jab he can get in without even really trying. This is hardly the place for an argument of politics and scientific merit, but Dick’s been in the same room with Jim and Bruce long enough to know neither of them will back down from butting heads. 

“There is no science in your study of the mind!” Jim’s voice echoes out into the great expanse of water they’re so close to, close enough to smell the salt on the breeze, taste it on their lips, although it’s mostly overpowered by the heady copper tang of blood.

“Gentlemen.” Dick’s in no position to mediate this fight, but it’s clear none of the officers will step in, not when Jim has the authority over them, not when Bruce refuses to relinquish his control to anyone. 

There’s a moment of silence. Bruce and Jim lock eyes as a heartbeat passes and then another as though they’re having an unspoken discussion of the history between them, tallying every right and wrong in a mental chess game. The wood complains loudly, a fourth party in their conversation. 

“We’ll take the body back to the station,” Gordon finally relents, although his words are begrudging, slow and muttered with an edge of bitterness. Dick almost regrets forcing their way up here, past the officers standing guard, wrangling reporters and rubber-necking citizens alike. The body is horrific though, in a way that Dick can’t possibly fathom. They need Bruce for this, even if Gordon refuses to admit it, need his insight into all the blackest corners of a twisted mind. “We’ll determine cause of death after the autopsy.” 

“We’d very much like to be kept in the loop…” But Gordon’s already turning away as Dick speaks, making his way back towards safer ground. Dick and Bruce remain where they are, framed by officers on either side as the wind continues to howl a lament for the broken body before them. 

“It’s the same.” Bruce’s voice is so quiet that Dick almost misses his words, doesn’t really know what they mean either way. Bruce is a private person, one who rarely shows all his cards, and Dick has to admit his attitude does lend credence to the rumors that he’s just as insane as the patients he treats. There’s a connection here, one Dick isn’t privy too, at least not right now. 

“It’s like he’s smiling.”

Dick swallows hard around the bile that’s threatening to rise in his throat as he forces his eyes back to the corpse. The corners of the boy’s mouth have been gashed wide to create a gaping, bloody red smile as his lifeless eyes stare up at them. 

“God help us.”

——————

The horizon is lightening, turning from the deepest pitch black to a gray that streaks like wet paint. The streets are mostly empty, save for the unfortunate citizens who call them home, the children who have no choice but to build their homes beside heating grates or, if they’re lucky, in the basements of abandoned buildings. 

Men stagger out of the Oasis, the last few stragglers tossed out if they’re too drunk to walk on their own. Locks click on doors, candles are snuffed as the boys take cloths to their made up faces, turn back into young men again.

Louis leans at the window, breath ghosting in soft puffs of frost in the early morning air as he runs his fingers over a playing card in his hand. The edges are worn, tinged brown from use in dirty hands, but the picture is vivid in black ink that seems untouched by the wear. A spindly jester stands, half-curtseying with a large grin on his face. His clothes have been painted in a bright red and yellow gold but Louis’s eyes run over a message, penned neatly in proper handwriting. _Just always be waiting for me_ , the card says. 

“What have you got there?” Jason peers over Louis’s shoulder at the card and the younger shrugs at the question. 

“Just a gift from a client. Pretty useless.” Louis turns the card over in his hands, wrinkles his nose at its perceived lack of value. “I’d rather he bought me a drink.” 

Jason chuckles softly and ruffles Louis’s mousy brown hair. “Guess you’re learning.” Louis bats his hand away and, for once, Jason retreats, kicks off his shoes so he can flop down on the bed in the corner. He’ll blame his lack of fight on the lateness of the hour. “Come on. I’m tired.” 

The personal message on the card darkens before Louis’s eyes and he turns to see Jason blowing out the lone candle, bathing the room in night. Louis doesn’t like sleeping alone and Jason doesn’t much blame him. Some of the other boys are more than eager to steal from their companions while they sleep, pilfering others’ hard-earned cash simply because they’re vulnerable, and Jason knows Louis’s not scrappy enough to stand up for himself.

“In a minute,” comes the younger’s reply and Jason grumbles, pulls the blankets over his head. Louis turns back to the window, watches the sun grow lighter on the horizon for a moment longer before he tucks the card into his pocket and slips under the blankets as well. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry there's not a whole lot of this chapter from Bruce's perspective. I'm still trying to get in his head a bit more. 
> 
> Also, I won't pretend to know anything about the 1890s outside of the minimal research I've done to write this so, if you see something that's off, please let me know so I can correct it!
> 
> Feedback, comments, and kudos are always, always appreciated! Also, you can find me on tumblr at [transkeithkogane](https://transkeithkogane.tumblr.com/) so feel free to chat with me there!


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